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To
the Lady Sewing at Night in a Red Room
The sun has gone
to sleep
your children are home from school
chores done, dinner served
and now resting peacefully
tucked beneath a pink mosquito net.
You have cooked,
swept, washed
their white uniforms in the river
ironed them, prepared their
evening meal
all in a beautiful blue sari
with your captivating smile
and long dark tresses cascading
your smooth sun kissed skin
I see you.
I have you deep
in my subconscious.
I struggle with
my definitions
of femininity, of a woman’s role
as I drink you in with my eyes;
with my heart.
You are the mother
I dreamt of.
You are the mother I aspire to become.
My children-loved and healthy-
have a mother who works while they are in school.
I hear of European
men
struggling with powerful, accomplished women
tired of empty homes and cold unmade beds
come to your village, choose a
Singhalese girl to wed
uprooting her from this
tropical, spice laden island.
In her isolation, she withers and fades.
You are still stitching
earning extra money for your family
filled with your communal
definition of being the lady of the house.
Your womb-fulfilled
your breasts-touched and suckled
your hands-held and calloused
your hair-long and brushed
your wrist-adorned with string
a symbol of wakefulness
your eyes-content with loving.
Oh beautiful, Rashmi
with every colored silk you stitch
memories of love
of holding your loved ones
guide your experienced hands
encourage your steadfastness.
For you, men are
not your competitor
they are your protector, your provider
your role since 5th century B.C.
is one of honor.
What can I bring
to our 200 year history?
How can I bridge this ethereal beauty
with our barren progress?
I feel your beauty,
your strength
your creativity
in that red earth room.
I salute you. I
celebrate you.
I take you home in
the canyons of my being.
08-15-07
Lisa Albright Ratnavira
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